nominal spaces

stories for photographs

Clint Hutzulak

Open Space | Victoria BC Canada | 2003

The Floating Island

for Holly King

Holly King. Solitude, 2000

Chromogenic print, 99 x 168 cm.
Courtesy of the artist and Trpanier-Baer Gallery, Calgary.

On evenings when the tide was favourable, Cavalcanti, the retired

magistrate, would row across the estuary to play cards with the fishermen in the village. From their rooms above the square, leaning out
with elbows on iron balconies, the wives of the fishermen would
watch Cavalcanti as he passed like a wraith below their windows. His
damp robes, dragging across the dusty cobbles, left an enigmatic
stroke like that of a brush, which led some of the more superstitious
among them to read signs on the wet stones. What had happened
that he should be banished to their poor stretch of coast was not
known, but there was speculation that he had angered someone
powerful whom he would have been wiser to please. Either that, or
the old man was a practitioner of the dark arts, though evidence of
the latter was never produced. Where nothing is known, there is
mystery; where there is mystery, fear. With his black robes and
inscrutable silence, Cavalcanti was feared as much as he was
respected. Small children drew back from open doorways when he
passed through the streets. It was said by those who had crossed the
salt river near the magistrates house that he ventured out only at
night, preferring his books to the company of men, candle light to
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that of the sun. Except for those words absolutely necessary to make
his needs known, Cavalcanti spoke only to the fishermen at cards. In
the private room at the back of the tavern, where the cards were
played, it is known that on one occasion he stopped a knife fight
and, on another, prevented a fool from gambling away his boat and
nets. But the fishermen, who enjoyed relieving the magistrate of his
gold, were typically circumspect, as if sworn to secrecy in return for
their winnings at the table. So it was a surprise to all that the disappearance of Rigoberto the fisherman, which had long haunted the
village, would finally be explained to the priest by the magistrate as
he lay trembling on his death bed, many years later.
Late one night, when the moon was an umber crescent hanging just
above the trees, Rigoberto was returning home after a long and
arduous day. Tilting his oars back in the locks, he drifted past the
shadow of the magistrates house, weary as he was from many hours
bending his back against the sea. So close now to home, where soon
he would lay with a soft pallet beneath him, and hot soup to warm
him, Rigoberto was content for a moment to let the tide pull him
toward shore. So it was for this reason that the fisherman, who otherwise would have had the creak and groan of oars and water fill his
ears, was able to hear a faint but rhythmic tapping across the water.
A low light burned in one of the magistrates windows. A shadow
cast by the upward projection of a lamp seemed to the fisherman,
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silent in his boat, a monstrous figure reeling in the stony glow of the
room. Perhaps it was merely pretext for a tale he would later share
with friends, but Rigoberto beached his boat on a narrow spit of
sand and, drawing his cloak about his shoulders, made his way up a
steep path from the shore until panting, he was standing beneath
the lighted window, his back against the stone wall, his breath a
vaporous shape like a pear in front of his face.
From above, the sound of tapping. Seizing the lower branches of a
fruit tree growing close to the wall, the fisherman hoisted himself off
the ground and perched on a sturdy branch, his bare toes gripping
the bark. He waited until his breath quieted, then raised his head
and peered cautiously over the sill of the open window.
The magistrate, bare-chested save for a crucifix, was shuffling
around a large desk in the centre of the room. In his left hand he held
a broom handle, which he tapped on the floor before him in the
manner of the blind. His other hand he held out protectively at chest
height, as if to ward off a blow. The tip of the cane hit an obstacle and
Cavalcanti swore and stopped mid-shuffle, his free hand groping
the air. A wooden chair. He edged gingerly around the chair and
Rigoberto shrank down as the magistrate rounded the corner of the
desk and turned his face to the window. The fisherman held his
breath, prepared to leap to the ground. The cane tapped forward
over the floor until Cavalcanti was within arms reach, looking right
at the fisherman, the magistrates mouth set in a grim line of concen21

tration. Nothing. Emboldened, the fisherman reached through the

window and waved a hand in front of Cavalcantis face. Still nothing.
The old man was completely blind.
Cavalcanti stopped before the window, and the fisherman quietly let
out his breath. The magistrate sniffed, catching a sudden whiff of
garlic, sardines and red wine. Like an adder striking, his hand shot
out and locked onto Rigobertos forearm, which had been resting on
the windowsill. The fisherman let out a cry and jerked back, losing
his footing on the branch and, if it had not been for the vise-like grip
on his arm, he would have fallen backwards into the night.
Whos there? Cavalcanti demanded. In the name of the Lord,
reveal thyself!
The fisherman pulled himself back to the safety of the wall,
steadying himself on the branch as he wiped his brow. It is I, Rigoberto, back from fishing the deeps, he said, catching his breath. I did
not intend to disturb you. I was passing nearby when I heard a
strange noise. I saw your light, and thought I might be of some help if
you were in need.
The magistrate retained his grip on the fishermans arm. Perhaps
there is a way you can be of help. This morning I awakened blind and
cannot see. I went to sleep a sound man, but when I awoke I was
afflicted.

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The magistrate released Rigobertos arm and picked up the stick,

which had fallen to the floor. Come in. He turned and shuffled to
the desk, and the fisherman lifted himself over the windowsill and
dropped lightly into the room.
Cavalcanti drew a chair close and sat at the desk, his hands drifting
over the clutter atop the desk until they touched a decanter of
golden liquor. Pour a glass for yourself and for me, he said. From a
drawer in the desk he produced two dirty glasses.
Rigoberto, who had never been in a room with so many books,
gazed around in awe. From floor to ceiling, the study was lined with
books, the spines grey or black, with lettering of faded gold. The
shelves bowed under their weight.
H-how will you read, now that your eyes have been afflicted?
Rigoberto asked, unstoppering the decanter and filling two glasses,
his own almost to overflowing. In truth, the magistrates eyes looked
perfectly healthy, neither clouded nor wandering, as one might
expect blind eyes to appear. Rigoberto set a glass into the old mans
waiting hands. Cavalcanti raised the glass with both hands and
drank heavily without answering.
Rigoberto gulped his sherry and sat in a rotten armchair beside
the desk, quietly refilling his glass. The magistrate, of course, did not
object.

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A small leather sack lay in the centre of the desk, immediately in

front of the magistrate. The sack was tied with a drawstring. Rigoberto leaned forward to move the sack aside as Cavalcanti made to set
his glass down. Something clinked in the sack and again the magistrates hand shot out with uncanny speed, pinning Rigobertos hand
and the sack to the desk. From the feel, Rigoberto surmised the
leather to be full of coins.
I was simply moving the bag out of harms way, Rigoberto mumbled. Cavalcanti scooped up the bag and hung it on its drawstring
around his neck, the thong digging into the back of his bony neck.
The magistrate fumbled behind his chair and pulled on a rough
tunic. The shirt tented over the sack, which lay like an extra heart
against Cavalcantis thin chest.
Scales have covered my eyes, and I know not why, he said at last,
cradling his glass of sherry, which Rigoberto had once again filled.
Years ago, when I lived in the city, I heard of a doctor who had success curing diseases of this nature. He may be able to help. He lives a
days travel north of here along the coast. I will pay you to take me
there in your boat. I have only the coins in this bag to pay both you
and the doctor. In spite of what you might think, I am not a wealthy
man.
Rigoberto leaned across the desk and took the magistrates hand
in his, raised it to his lips. I would be honoured to help you, my

friend. We can set out at once this very night, after I empty my nets
and provision the boat.

By dawn, a heavy fog had rolled in, and Rigoberto could no longer
hear the surf crashing against the shore. The magistrate dozed fitfully
at the stern of the boat, muffled in a coarse woolen blanket that was
now spangled with beads of moisture. In the grey mist which
enveloped them Rigoberto, who had never travelled out of sight of the
signal fire which burned night and day on the cliff above the village,
realized he was lost. He shipped oars and rested his cramped hands
on his knees. Except for the water lapping the side of the boat, the sea
was completely silent, with not even the cry of a bird. Rigoberto took
his cork-handled knife and cut off a slice of bread, stuffed the chewy
bread into his mouth. The empty decanter rolled between his feet,
half afloat in the bilge. Cavalcanti had drunk the remainder of the
sherry and then proceeded to vomit it over the side of the boat before
they had even pulled far enough from shore to hit the sea swell.
Rigoberto twisted around, craning his neck to see the dim glow of the
sun through the fog, but to no avail. He put the knife away and bent his
back to the oars again, hoping he was heading in the right direction.

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When he awoke, the sun was beating down on his head and Cavalcanti was poking him in the ribs with the end of his stick. You were
snoring, the magistrate said. Rigoberto batted the stick away and
sat up on the bench, looking around. The sea was dead calm, the sun
directly overhead. How long had he been asleep? The fog had
burned away. In the far distance, a small island with a lone tree broke
the horizon. There was no other land in sight.
He rowed for more than an hour, his mouth shut. Cavalcanti, as if
sensing his mood, was silent. The magistrate had draped the woolen
blanket over his head for shade, and looked for all the world like an
undersized boy wearing a giants wig. He had stripped off his tunic,
so the leather money sack, darkened with sweat, lay heavy in the
centre of his chest.
Gradually they drew nearer the island. High above them, the sky was
metallic and ominous and towards the horizon, veined with lightning. The sea was a single undulating glassy swell beneath them, so
they seemed afloat on a mirrored tray. No birds turned overhead,
and nothing passed in the watery depths below their keel. Rigoberto, in spite of the heat, felt a cold sweat roll down his back, and he
crossed himself for luck. The magistrate was oblivious to Rigobertos
unease, and seemed to enjoy the gentle movement of the boat. He
dozed with his feet over the transom, sandals dangling lackadaisically from his toes.
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They were almost upon the island before Rigoberto realized what
was wrong. Every time he had looked over his shoulder to correct his
course, the island had appeared to waver in the heat. In fact, now
that he was close enough to touch it, he could see the little island
was bobbing slowly on the surface of the sea. He shipped oars again
and waited for the ripples created by the movement of the boat to
subside. The island rocked and then came gently to rest. Rigoberto
pulled an oar from the oarlock and poked the island with the blade.
The island see-sawed up and down, the leaves of the tree rustling
gently overhead.
Are we there? Cavalcanti was sitting up, the makeshift cane
propped between his knees. He looked around expectantly, as if to
catch the scent of noonday cooking fires in the air.
Rigoberto beached the boat and stepped ashore, the little island
settling noticeably under his weight.
Feeling his way, the magistrate clambered over the rowing thwart
to the bow. Here? he asked. Step down here? One of his leather
sandals fell off and dropped to the water.
Rigoberto said Yes, step down here, and the magistrate stepped
down heavily to the sand of the tiny beach.
The sandal lay on the water. Rigoberto, leaning on the boat, reached
out to pick it up. The leather wasnt wet. He laid his hand on the sur-

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face of the sea. It was like fabric of some sort, a type of metallic fabric
that gave beneath his palm to reveal something solid below.
Can you see the town? Cavalcanti asked. He had picked up his
stick and crawled up the beach to rest at the base of the solitary tree,
which on closer inspection looked artificial, as if constructed by
hand from paper or clay.
The boat rocked as Rigoberto stepped from the shore onto the
water. It held beneath his weight. The fabric billowed gently away
from the indentations of his feet. He walked out to the stern of the
boat, holding the gunwale, then let go and took a few tentative steps
away from the island. He was walking on water. He let out a laugh.
You wont believe this, he called out to Cavalcanti, but Im walking on water! He took a half-dozen more steps and did a little jump
into the air, landing solidly on the surface of the sea.
At the base of the tree, the magistrate crossed himself. Its the heat
affecting your brain, Cavalcanti said. Come rest with me in the
shade, and then we can make our way along the beach to the town.
We will get some water to drink.
The fisherman walked away from the boat and the little island.
Around him stretched an infinity of ocean. The sea-blue metallic
fabric was hot underfoot. When he looked back, the tree was bobbing ever so gently with the clumsy movements of the magistrate as
he circled the toy island, the tip of his cane flicking sand into the air.
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Rigoberto, the magistrate cried out, I will give you all the gold I
carry. Do not abandon me here! Perhaps fear, coupled with heat
prostration, lack of sleep and dehydration, conspired to break the
old mans will. Hearing no reply, Cavalcanti fell to his knees and
wept, pressing his hands to his eyes. But the salt tears, streaming
down his cheeks, unlocked something inside him, a man who had
not cried for more than forty years.
Rigoberto, he called out again, astonished, his sorrow turning in
an instant to joy. Cavalcanti struggled to his feet and looked around
for the fisherman. A miracle! The scales have fallen from my eyes. A
miracle! I can see again, he shouted.
Cavalcanti flung the stick aside and staggered to the edge of the
sand. He spotted the fisherman standing far out on the water. Rigoberto, looking back one last time, saw the magistrate wading
waist-deep in the brine, one arm on the fishing boat to steady himself against the lap of the waves, the other held high as if in
benediction or farewell. And at that instant Rigoberto plunged down
into the sea and sank without a trace. Like most fishermen, he had
never learned to swim. As the waters closed over him, his last perfect
breath rose in a jewelled cloud before his face.

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